


Five Times Bucky Hurt Someone With His Arm, and One Time He Didn't

by MyriadQuiddities



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief buckynat, F/M, HAPPY FLUFFY GOOD THINGS, I swear, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, stevebucky end game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadQuiddities/pseuds/MyriadQuiddities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five separate times and people the man known as James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes or the Winter Soldier hurt someone with his metal arm, and the one person and time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 8th, 1945

**Author's Note:**

> For the smut that appears later, it's the first time I've written full on smut so I'm learning.
> 
> Also, I fuck with a lot of canon. Literally all of it. I mix canons.
> 
> I apologize for that (and the smut) in advance.

It's black.  
  
He remembers Steve and the train, he remembers falling ( _how can he remember? He should be dead_ ). He remembers being dragged away, his arm... Bucky reaches, feeling his left arm with deft fingers, fingers of a sniper.  
  
It's cold, and he can't see much in the dim lighting of his cell beyond a faint gleam. He moves it, and hears a whirring noise.  
  
Machine. He has a fucking _machine_ for an arm. He grits his teeth together, trying not to panic and trying not to go into a daze like the last time he'd been captured by HYDRA (Sergeant 32557, Sergeant 32557, repeat, repeat).  
  
There's a clatter from the door across from where he's propped himself against the wall, low voices in what sounds like German coming from outside. He shifts his way onto his feet, staying away from the door as it creaks open. Two men in white lab coats walk in cautiously.  
  
"Sit down," it's the one on his left speaking, and he doesn't listen, remaining silent and standing.  
  
"Sit down!" The man on the left repeats, moving slightly closer.  
  
Bucky responds like lightning, viper quick to wrap his left hand around the neck of the speaking man. Slamming him to the floor, Bucky turns towards the door that the man on the right escaped through. He can hear frenzied German in the hallway, and klaxons sounding.  
  
He darts out into the hallway, tripping up a guard on the way.  
  
"Stop him!" The voice is familiar, oh so familiar.  
  
It sounds so much like Zola that Bucky freezes for the briefest second, turning around. But it isn't him.  
  
Bucky's brief pause allows two things to happen. The first is five guards quickly pinning him to the ground. He struggles against them, his arm's servos whirring as he tries to move it, leaving his neck exposed.  
  
The second is another scientist appearing above him, whom he can barely see out of the corner of his eye. He continues to struggle uselessly as the scientist pulls out a syringe and kneels down to push it into his neck. Bucky's eyes drift closed and he returns to the black.


	2. November 22nd, 1963

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an awfully popular headcanon within the fandom, and I totally accept it.
> 
> Also, cookies for those who spot the tiny Doctor Who reference I put in!

It's bright.  
  
His handlers gave him the information only necessary for this one kill, after which he is to be extracted from the scene.  
  
 _"It's 1963. You are tasked with killing the President of the United States. Blend in and do not fail."_  
  
It's a warm, sunny day in Dallas, Texas. The temperature is hovering around 71 degrees Fahrenheit, and there's a buzz in the air surrounding the parade route. The Winter Soldier mingles around for a bit longer, avoiding the cameras and not talking to the other people beyond simple greetings. He's a far cry from being here to socialize.  
  
To the outside observer, his movements would seem easy, casual even. Normal. Not the movements of a killer.  
  
He begins to make his way to an old building, slipping past a middle aged couple and single, nearly bald man wearing a leather jacket who is making his way in the opposite direction of the Winter Soldier. He's heading towards the gates holding back the crowd from the road. The Winter Soldier forgets about him immediately.  
  
 _Focus on the mission._  
  
He walks up the few flights of stairs to the area.  
  
 _"There will be a window in the corner, set up there. The President will travel within your sights. Leave the door open and go to the roof when the mission is complete."_  
  
The Winter Soldier starts setting up the rifle, assembling it quickly. Moments after he has settled into position, he hears the crowd below him begin to stir. The sound of motors can be heard as the car carrying his target moves into his scope.  
  
Breathe in.  
  
His right finger is on the trigger, but it's quavering slightly.  
  
Breathe out.  
  
He fires, and simultaneously he knows he's hit the target and that the shot wasn't fatal. Another shot, but it's a person in front of the target.  
  
He shifts quickly, expertly to use his left arm, his scope adjusted so deftly that the next shot will be final.  
  
Breathe in.  
  
Fire. He can see the spray of blood.  
  
Breathe out.  
  
In less than a minute he's dismantled the rifle and left the room, just as the screams begin to reach his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the accounts I looked at said 3 shots, and I am not going to screw with history on this one. It was actually about 71 degrees that day, I made sure to look that up.


	3. January 7th, 1977

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized speech is in Russian this time!

It's cold.  
  
Wind whistles across the tops of the buildings, kicking up snow in ghostly plumes against the nearly dark sky. A smattering of clouds cannot extinguish the pale crescent of the moon, nor the stars sprinkled finely around it.  
  
His armor is covered in a white coat, his hair drawn back underneath the hood pulled carelessly over his head. His stance is relaxed in the same way a tiger's is; always watching, always prepared.  
  
The Winter Soldier shifts faintly, his arm whirring as he drifts it up to the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. There's a faint crunch of snow from behind him and he turns, noting the approach of his counterpart.  
  
 _"Has the target entered the hotel?"_  The Russian curls around him with familiarity as she steps up to stand next to him on his right. Her hand brushes his and his brow furrows for a brief second at her actions. She draws her hand back, face impassive.  
  
 _"Yes, approximately two minutes and forty-two seconds ago,"_ he replies, glancing at her as she turns to examine the building.  
  
 _"The convention begins precisely at 2200 hours,"_ her hand rests on his again (why is she _doing_ that, the mission does not dictate for there to be familiarity, he doesn't _know_ her) before she turns in the direction of the rusted fire escape. She turns back as she notices him not following immediately, a question on her face that she can't put into words.  
  
He follows her soon after that, down the fire escape and into the alley below; they stash their weapons and coats in a crumbling section of the wall behind a series of trash cans. Then they quickly make their way across the street, avoiding the cars pulling up in front of the hotel. They're no longer wearing their coats, clothes that were covered now on full display for those who might look.  
  
Natasha has full possession of the sleek, strapless black dress that gleams as it flows along her body like an oil slick. The Winter Soldier seems natural in his servants garments, a black suit that barely seems to fit his shoulders. She draws more attention from the other guests (men and women alike) than he does, the garb he wears bestowing the necessary anonymity for their mission.  
  
They split up (another brush of hands, 5.5 seconds too long, it confuses him, though only briefly) and he leaves her to enter through the main doors, her head held high. The Winter Soldier enters through the servants entrance, picking up a tray of champagne on his way through the hotel to the main hall.  
  
It's only a few moments before he locates Natasha mingling expertly, occasionally being requested onto the dance floor in the middle of the convention that occupies the main hall. Their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds (2.3, too long, too _short_ ) over the shoulder of some head of state, and he sees a longing within her eyes that makes him look away (he doesn't understand, he doesn't _know_ her like that). At the center of the head table he spots the target, and he moves carefully around the dancers, offering his champagne to a few of the attendees; only a few decline.  
  
He shifts the platter from one hand to the other, adding drops of a poison to one of the glasses so quickly it would be nearly impossible to discern even on camera footage. He knows she saw him, but only because she knew.  
  
 _"Champagne, sir?"_ He offers the drinks to the target, a head of state. The man takes the poisoned glass, and the Winter Soldier moves away, offering the last of the champagne glasses to other guests and dignitaries as he watches the target take a sip of his death. He turns away, Natasha already by his side.  
  
On their way out, she grabs a fur coat from the coat check, pulling it on as they exit the building via the servant's entrance. They can just make out the beginnings of screams from the hall, but they're soon drowned out by the sound of the wind. The street that was so busy with cars barely half an hour earlier is nearly deserted and they move like snow caught in a breeze across the street back to their stashed coats and weapons. Natasha pulls off her stolen coat and switches it for the white one, the Winter Soldier doing the same as he dons the rest of his garments and weapons, pulling the hood up tight as she has done.  
  
She turns to him when she's finished and he tenses slightly (he's anticipated this, not knowing why, not liking the unfamiliarity of it). She runs her hands along his arms, pulling him down the alleyway and through many others until they are far away from the mission and his extraction point as well (he knows she knows this, not part of the mission, _not part of the mission_ ).  
  
Natasha turns to him again in the new alleyway, the distant glow of a flickering streetlight catching the red wisps of her hair and igniting them in a fiery halo around her face. He watches her warily as she brings her hands up to pull his hood down, feeling her fingers run through his hair. She presses her lips to his and he can taste her, feel the faint tugging of her fingers in his hair (it sends a faint chill down his spine, familiar, but _how?_ ). He puts up his hand to gently touch her face, metal fingertips cold.  
  
Just as gently, he pushes her away. There is a break in her facade, and he can see the pain he has caused. But it means nothing to him.  
  
 _"You don't remember me?"_ She has schooled her face back into its perfect mask.  
  
He blinks at her, not betraying the confusion he feels.  
  
 _"No."_  
  
A pause as his hand tightens faintly on her shoulder with a slight clink.  
  
 _"Should I?"_  
  
She closes her eyes, turning away from him and walking out into the dark.

The streetlight has gone out.


	4. December 17th, 1991

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically major character death.

It's windy.  
  
The Winter Soldier is high atop a building near the main road. Other buildings stretch their way above him, channeling the frigid wind further in his direction. He can feel ice crystals brushing against his skin; a storm is fast approaching, and neither he nor his quarry wish to be out in it more than they need to be (he remember the freezing immobility of an ice clad body, doesn't wish to return).  
  
He lies along the top of the building, rifle set up for speedy adjustments. There's a faint fogging of his goggles, not enough to hamper his abilities, but a nuisance nonetheless (there's a faint flash of blond, blue, a similar fog against a windowpane, _"don't catch cold, your ma will have a fit."_ ).  
  
His breath catches in his throat, and his eyes go sightless for a moment as he works against the strange (familiar) emotions beginning to manifest themselves more and more frequently. He digs his fingernails into his palm, leaving crimson crescents in their wake. The pain steadies him.  
  
And, after willing his mind blank (blank as ice, clear as glass), he waits for his target to enter the main road as he has every day. He is patient. He can wait.  
  
The Winter Soldier is rewarded not minutes later, the car pulling it's way onto the road he watches. It's design is familiar. He looks into his scope and frowns  ( _"I did say a few years, didn't I?"_ , genius, _Stark_ ).  
  
He has an uncertainty, a pressing at the back of his mind that something is wrong. There is something within him that wants him to get up, leave, never pull the trigger.  
  
That voice is not one he listens to.  
  
The Winter Soldier fires, having many years and many missions before this to now trust his left arm with the most precise killings. The resulting explosion's proximity to his building sends the barest kiss of warmth to his cheeks.  
  
His face is contorted as he makes his way over buildings to the location of his extraction, expression smoothing as he enters within reach of his handlers. Their faces betray no emotion at first, but then there is the faintest furrowing of their brows. He submits to their scrutiny.  
  
"Wipe him."  
  
His shoulders tighten as they speak (pain, blankness, something is lost but _what?_ ), and they notice this too.  
  
"Hard."


	5. March 10th, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a rollercoaster of emotion, you have been warned.
> 
> Self-harm and self-hatred. Also this is where the mastrubation tag comes in.

It's painful.  
  
The memories, even the good ones. None of them bring him joy (its been so long, was it programmed from him?) or even something as base as comfort (he deserves _none_ ). The Winter Soldier huddles on the floor of a hotel bathroom, somewhere that seems familiar (but what is familiar anymore when one has over 70 years of memories to recall?). It's not Russia, it's not Germany either. No, it's not even that side of the Atlantic.  
  
After being free from HYDRA control for nearly ten months, he has no intention of setting foot in another country besides his own for a long, long time.  
  
He's somewhere in the Midwest, maybe even St. Louis, or Chicago. The voices he hears that sometimes filter up from the street below and occasionally pass his door suggest Chicago. He vaguely remembers the train ticket he purchased when he was farther west, somewhere there was a fair amount of snow; Denver, he recalls with a faint shiver.  
  
Chicago is a large city, which comforts him more than he can explain with the fragments he tries to fit together (sepia, black and white, color, black and white, black and white, sepia, sepia, sepia, color, color), nothing falling into place. The clock he can see on the bedside table glows 1:25 AM at him. A small, pained smile flits across his face as he notes the date.  
  
98 years old (and he feels every year of it, biology be damned).  
  
Bucky stands up from the corner, his legs shaky as he makes his way to look in the small mirror. He can see the different personas he's had over the years layer themselves over his reflection; Bucky Barnes, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier.  
  
But who is he now?  
  
His inability to answer the question that has been nagging him for months, maybe years, only serves to frustrate him more and he lashes out at the reflection. Metal collides with it and glass shatters into the sink and on to the floor.  
  
The Winter Soldier studies the mess, stepping out of the bathroom and into the hotel room, leaving it behind him (isn't that what he's done with all other messes he creates, why should this one be any different?). There's a balcony, and he goes out on to it, the city's ambiance filtering into him with exhaust and words and tail lights.  
  
He immediately regrets it (too open, sniper shot easily obtained, no cover), his heart kicking into overdrive (staccato, too fast, _too fast_ ), hands clenching and unclenching on the metal railing. His breathing is fast in his ears, vision beginning to tunnel. He acts quickly, pulling himself up onto the next balcony, and the next after that (movement focuses, unites, returning to legato).  
  
The Winter Soldier reaches the roof in no time (1.2 minutes, his body is a clock, can't stop the counting), crouching low to survey the area. He paces, low to the roof and watching.  
  
He finds no one, and as the panic passes he becomes nearly lethargic again, barely making it back down to his room without nearly falling countless (no, 5, keeping track even when he doesn't know it) times. He shouldn't return to the room, an insatiable itch telling him to move on, move on as he always has (always will, no one will catch him, will control him again, will tell him _who he is or who he should be_ ). But the apathy draws him back into the bathroom, back to the same corner.  
  
Bucky can see himself in the shattered glass on the floor, his hair coming out of the ponytail he managed to craft about nine months ago. His hair is longer now, nearly reaching the middle of his shoulder blades. He stands, pulling off his shirt, followed by his pants and underwear (he revels in the loss of pressing weight, fingers skimming lightly over scars, over long untouched places). He runs his fingers through his hair, letting it drape around his face, slither its way down his back.  
  
He takes a breath before stepping into the bathtub, turning on the shower. His head tips back, allowing water to pool in his parted mouth, water tracing tracks along his body, along both arms (he came to terms with the metal one many years ago, decades even) and over his legs. The water is too hot already, but his hand reaches out to turn the water scalding.  
  
A few minutes later (3.9, can this ever stop?) he shuts the water off, stepping out and standing still, not moving to dry himself off. His skin is a bright pink, faintly painful to the touch (he deserves more, for killing a President, for hurting Natasha, murdering Howard and Maria, for _nearly killing Steve_ , countless others screaming their torment at him).  
  
Bucky's hands go to his head, tugging at the hair (no, he _can't_ , it reminds him of the night in January, flickering streetlights going out, going out, _black and white memory_ ). Instead he curls up, drawing himself into the smallest ball he possibly can, warm and too sensitive skin pushing against each other, pushing it's way into the forefront of his mind (and cold, thin fingers splaying their way across his ribs, _sepia memory_ ).  
  
It's a few seconds before he can realize how he's moving (no numbers, is this the only way the counting will ever cease?), rutting against the floor, low moans escaping his lips as he shifts in search of friction he craves. His cock aches, still too sensitive from the near scalding water, but his hips jerk forward of their own accord and his hand reaches down to thumb over the head, a hushed whine falling from his lips.  
  
Smooth and dexterous metal fingers slide their way lower, pushing past thick bands of muscle to curl and he pants, back arching as they twitch within his ass. He rocks back onto them, then thrusts forward into his hand, his mind filled with nothing but pure sensation (desperate need, soothing a burn).  
  
The ball that he was is now dissolved, and he thrusts a few more times into his hand before he comes with a harsh keen. His hips jerk a few more times, and his breath huffs, fingers of both hands sliding away to stretch out in front of him. He's too boneless to move from his spot, still curled closely, like an apostrophe.  
  
It's minutes, maybe hours later (he can't remember the last time he didn't count each second, the counter within him seems broken) that he realizes he's still in the same spot.  
  
The Winter Soldier feels disgust at the stickiness on his chest and chin and floor, but he can't move enough to do anything about it. His mind is empty, blank without sensation to send signals coursing through his body. Yet still he moves, reaching over to grab a glass shard, trying to fill the emptiness with _a_ sensation, _any_ sensation.  
  
The Wint-(Bucky, his name is _Bucky_ , isn't that what Stevie told him on that helicarrier? _But is that him?_ ) doesn't register pain at first and distantly there's some sense that he grabbed the glass with his left hand. A moment later (0.5 seconds, _it's back_ ), he can feel sharp pains, some of them along his arm and wrist, others crossing his chest and trailing down his legs. He can sense warmth emanating from them, blood beginning to bead along all of them, slipping down to the linoleum and he drops the glass, smearing the floor with a mixture of come and blood.  
  
Bucky feels a lightness that he hasn't felt in ages, a feeling of having finally caused himself enough pain to appease a small fraction of the guilt. He can feel it building up again, bringing him back for a small moment of crystal clarity.  
  
 _It can't end this way._  
  
He tries to push himself up, initially slipping in the already pooled blood  seeping from the largest cuts along his wrist (he feels faint, like he continued slipping after hitting the floor again). He tries again, managing to drag himself over to his clothes (glass embeds itself in his skin, pinpoints of pain). The cuts on his legs have mostly stopped bleeding freely, so he merely covers them with cloth before he wraps the remaining cloth over his wrist. Once done, he collapses on top of his wrist, trying to stay awake.  
  
The next hours are spent slipping in and out of a daze, memories (Steve naked and curled over him, _struggling below his arm_ , laughing, _unconscious_ , Stevie, _Steve?_ _sepia and color_ ) flickering along the tired trails in his mind. It's only when light begins to caress the window that he fully wakes up.  
  
Bucky carefully pushes himself up with his left arm, his right arm curled awkwardly underneath him. His whole body is covered in dried blood, come, and what seems to be sweat or tears, all of which flake off as he moves. Slowly, he manages a sitting position, then nearly fifteen minutes after that he is able to stand, moving into the other room to the bed where he left his bag. The clock gleams 7:24 AM at him as he passes.  
  
He takes out the first aid kit that he stocked specially, dragging himself and a thin hotel sheet back into the bathroom. He picks up the large shards of glass and throws them carelessly into the trash, brushing the smaller away from him. His whole body aches, and he knows why, is still ashamed of it.  
  
He manages to tear the sheet into strips with one hand, carefully pulling his underpants off the cuts on his leg and cleaning them before stitching the larger ones closed (he never winces anymore, it's so familiar) and wrapping them with the makeshift bandages. He moves onto removing the bits of glass, disinfecting everything and stitching closed the gouges on his chest.  
  
By this time he's out of bandages and he hasn't even dealt with his flesh arm's injuries. He moves out of the bathroom to grab another sheet, his movements much surer than they had been moments ago. Retreating again to the bathroom, he deals carefully with the lacerations on his arm, giving the greatest care to the one on his wrist. He knows all of these will scar, and he _wants_  them to, _needs_  them to (reminder forever, will he ever tell another?).  
  
Once he is covered with bandages, he dampens a washcloth, rubbing off the last of the deplorable mixture from his body. He doesn't even make a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the mess on the floor. Quietly, he pulls his hair back, tilting his head as he feels it brush the skin between his shoulder blades. Taking the scissors from his kit he cuts it so the ponytail tickles along the middle of his neck, the trimmings landing on the bloodied rug.  
  
After putting on his only other set of clothes, he dumps all of the soiled fabrics into the bathtub and sets a match to them, leaving half of the money he has on the bed.  
  
Bucky exits through the window, climbing over to the fire escape and walking down it, backpack slung casually over one shoulder and baseball cap pulled firmly on his head. He knows where to go, but is still afraid of what he might find when he reaches journey's end (and he can't go there now, has to keep moving).  
  
He's heading north on Michigan Avenue before he even hears the sirens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I chose Bucky's birthday.
> 
> I have no regrets.
> 
> And wooooo, CHICAGO!


	6. July 4th, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yES I KNOW IT'S STEVE'S BIRTHDAY
> 
> Also, italicized speech is not a different language in this chapter!

It's warm.  
  
Bucky can't remember the last time he was truly warm, can remember times he was hot (desperate need, glass- _no_ ) and others when he was cold (black, nothing but bl- _NO_ ). But he's been in D.C. for at least a day now, coming in on an early morning bus from New York. And the night air still retains some of the sultry heat of the day, firecrackers going off in back alleys occasionally making him twitch and check what weaponry he still owns (they make him want to hide and protect himself, but he can't do that, not now).  
  
He's stayed away from Steve for the whole day, knowing that disrupting the one day that Steve allows himself to stop searching for Bucky would not be wise. But it's past the time most fireworks have ceased and he's standing in the shadows between streetlights, watching the apartment across the street.  
  
It brings back memories of the apartment he tried to visit a few days prior, which doesn't exist anymore, the ground where it stood covered with a skyscraper for some corporate company he does not care to involve himself with, and invading private property would've done that. He remembers thinking that maybe he had the wrong address, maybe he actually _forgot_  something, but he knows he didn't. He had hoped that maybe someone would've saved it for historical reasons, but the glass and steel before him said otherwise.  
  
The apartment he stands before now is more similar to the apartment of the past, and his lips quirk faintly in a fleeting smile (they've become easier, like he understands them now). There's the sound of footsteps farther up the street and he presses himself back into the shadows as he watches the man walk up the street to the apartment Bucky has been watching for the better part of an hour.  
  
"Steve," he whispers it, nearly wanting to call out and make his presence known, like he used to do. But he sticks to the shadows as he watches Steve enter the apartment's lobby. It's only then that he crosses the street, eyes glancing around carefully.  
  
He slips into the space between the buildings, pulling himself quietly onto the fire escape, the metal clanging softly as he moves up, floor by floor.  
  
He stops outside Steve's, staying in the darkness as he watches. Bucky's been in this exact spot a few times earlier during the day, when he knew Steve would be out of the apartment. He's been here a few other times even before this, making sure to leave a false trail that kept Steve away for a few days. It was always difficult, being in the place Steve called home; he could sense the emptiness it held (and he remembers when he was there before, and he wonders if he caused the emptiness, or if it was there all along).  
  
Bucky never took much, only ever taking food when he knew it was unlikely to be missed. Occasionally he would sleep, wrapped in blankets that smelled like Steve, but never on the bed; it was the couch or beneath the bed.  
  
Looking through the window again he notes the frown on Steve's face, illuminated by the screen of his phone. Bucky's been very careful at covering his tracks after the event in Chicago and his stomach clenches in guilt at the thought of the worry he must've put Steve through.  
  
Steve moves towards the bathroom and Bucky listens, hearing the shower turn on and he moves, opening the window in a fluid motion and pulling himself in. He stands from the crouch he landed in, closing the window behind him. The shower runs on for a few more minutes as Bucky waits (it takes every fiber of his control to stay where he is).  
  
Soon the water shuts off and a few moments later, Steve emerges from the bathroom, hair glistening and water tracing skin. Bucky is silent, he doesn't have words, didn't think to prepare any (he didn't prepare anything any more).  
  
Steve freezes when he sees Bucky, a slew of emotions painting themselves across the other's face. Finally, the emotions stop on a gut-wrenching hope, and Bucky wants Steve, needs him like a man in a desert needs water (but how can he be sure this oasis isn't just another mirage?). But he doesn't move and the silence stretches out further.  
  
And quickly, it becomes oppressive, and Bucky turns to go (because oil and water don't mix and he can't _do_  that to Steve).  
  
"Wait."  
  
His hands were on the sill, ready to open the window, but they still their movement and he turns back to Steve, who has moved to stand near the couch.  
  
Bucky doesn't meet his eyes.  
  
"I shouldn't ha-"  
  
"Don't." Bucky looks up, his blue eyes meeting the other blue (he can see pain, and that's _not_  what he wanted to do).  
  
"Don't say that Buck. Please."  
  
The 'please' freezes him and warms him, unlocking something within him that was afraid to act, afraid to break the barrier he set up between them for Steve's safety (or was it for his own?). And he moves quickly (like snowmelt in spring, maybe he is water after all), pressing his lips to Steve's, warm, dry. His stubble brushes against Steve's chin as he pulls back.  
  
 _"Bucky."_  
  
It's not so much a noise of surprise as it is one of realization, relief, raw worry and hopes being soothed with balm. Steve swallows, his hand reaching out to brush a thumb along Bucky's jaw.  
  
Bucky bites his lips, tongue wetting them nervously. His eyes are burning with unspilled tears as he leans into the touch, and he closes them.  
  
"I came home."  
  
His voice is quiet, rough in ways Steve's wasn't and he opens his eyes as his lips quirk in a smile, small (but it's there). Steve smiles back at him, his own eyes brimming with tears.  
  
"I-I missed you Buck. I missed you _so much,_ " Steve looks like sun after the storm, golden and liquid (and Bucky was his Icarus,  burned and drowned but this time he's alive).  
  
Bucky doesn't say anything in response, pressing his lips against Steve's again, drinking him in (this oasis is no mirage), his hands finding Steve's sides and pulling him closer. Their heartbeats are racing in time with each others, and when Bucky finally pulls away he rests his head on Steve's shoulder, cheek against warm skin. He can feel Steve's arms wrap around him and he doesn't move, barely even breathing.  
  
And Bucky slowly wraps his arms around Steve too, holding him close. "I missed you too." ( _More than I can say_ ). His voice is quiet, but strong, stronger than it was before.  
  
Steve buries his face in Bucky's hair, breathing him in. And Bucky does the same, his nose buried against warm, clean skin.  
  
"Steve".  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I hope you weren't thinking of putting clothes on just yet," he tries putting some of the old Bucky into his voice, and of all the other times he's tried, this one feels the least fake. He nips gently at Steve's neck, feeling the pulse rushing below his lips and enjoying the faint hitching of breath it elicits from Steve.  
  
"Wouldn't d-ream of it."  
  
Bucky remembers the other times he's done this and it feels like an old dance, but with a new tune (and he wasn't sure his moves would still work, but he needn't have worried). Steve brushes up against him, the towel slipping lower on Steve's waist.  
  
"Bedroom or couch?" And _fuck_  he forgot how low Steve's voice could get, the noise stirring long forgotten sensations in his gut.  
  
"Need you," he brings one of Steve's hands up to his mouth, lips finding the pulse point at the wrist and sucking, scraping his teeth lightly against the soft skin. Steve practically rolls up against him, head tilting back as he lets out a gloriously choked moan.  
  
"Couch," Bucky practically pants the word against the marks he's making, fingers tracing their way down Steve's body. He can feel Steve's interest pressing against his thigh and he _wants_  so badly, never knew how much until he entered the apartment.  
  
"Mhmm," Steve is reduced to less coherency, and normally he would be pressing Bucky to the couch but not tonight, not when this feels more right than anything has felt in a long, long time.  
  
Bucky pulls away from Steve just far enough to pull off his own shirt before he returns to kiss him, pressing his skin against Steve's as they drown in each other, drinking in each small sound the other makes. Steve's hands drop to Bucky's pants, pulling them off.  
  
Bucky begins to push him towards the couch, gentle and careful (he's never hurting another person with his arm, he swears it now) but with a need clawing at his insides. The pants are left behind, discarded on the floor along with Bucky's shirt. Steve's hands brush up Bucky's sides, thumbs brushing over nipples and Bucky has to break off the kiss because the breath he takes turns into a keen against Steve's neck, nipping again at the pulse point there.  
  
Steve's legs finally hit the couch and he sits, head tipped back where Bucky is sucking marks along it. Bucky clambers his way on top of him, knees on either side of Steve's hips and he rolls down against Steve, eliciting another choked moan. Bucky holds Steve's other wrist up to his mouth, performing the same acts upon it a he had done to the other. Steve's hips buck up against his own and he's falling apart so fast, they both are.  
  
Bucky manages to divest himself of his underwear and Steve's towel had fallen open a few moments ago. They both pause for the briefest of seconds before the need for pure friction wins out and their hips lock against each others, and Bucky presses himself close to Steve (they're a match and a rock and they will _burn the world down_ ).  
  
Bucky's hand snakes between the warmth of their bodies, wrapping around the both of them and jerking his hand up, Steve's back arching in response, the moan low and choked. Bucky's other hand trails further down, circling Steve's entrance and slowly pushing a careful finger in, slowly followed by a second. Steve's vocalizations are nothing but moans now, and Bucky makes sure to keep the friction going for a little bit longer before he notices Steve pointing towards a drawer just within reach.  
  
Bucky pauses his ministrations for a brief moment, pulling his fingers out, which causes a moan of loss to emanate from Steve. Bucky slicks his fingers with the lube before pressing the first two back in and slowly adding a third. Steve bucks up against his hips before rolling back onto the fingers.  
  
 _"Buck."_  It's strangled, desperate and Bucky pulls the fingers out one more time before covering his cock in lube and pressing it against Steve's entrance.  
  
They both move as one, Bucky thrusting in as Steve bucks his hips down.  
  
 _"Stevie."_  And they both have to pause, breathing hard. But it doesn't last for long, Bucky beginning to move, his hips jerking to hit Steve just right every time, skin slapping against skin, punctuated with breaths that neither of them can hold in.  
  
Steve is tensing around him and he knows that neither of them can hold out much longer. Their movements become less smooth and soon Steve is coming, the ripples of muscle sending Bucky over the edge too; their moans are twin, and Bucky bites down on Steve's shoulder as his hips jerk forward a few more times.  
  
Bucky falls against Steve, their skin warm and limbs languid. He pulls out of Steve with a groan, pushing the both of them so they're laying along the couch instead, Bucky still on top. His hands find a way to tangle themselves in Steve's hair, feeling Steve's mirror his with one hand. The other he suddenly feels tracing along the flesh of his wrist. Tracing the scar.  
  
Bucky is tempted to draw his hand away, nearly does, but Steve stops soon after tracing it, placing a kiss to it. Bucky looks up, eyes wide. Steve smiles down at him, a small one (Steve's always smiled, even when he's sad).  
  
"You're safe, and that's all that matters to me at this moment. All that matters, you hear me Buck?" Steve's voice is low, sleepy and still blissful from earlier.  
  
"I-" He swallows down the tears that are threatening again, returning the smile. "I understand."  
  
Steve lets both his hands find Bucky's hair now, stroking through it calmingly. Bucky reciprocates, the metal arm whirring softly as it moves.  
  
He's not going to hurt another being with this arm ever again, repeating the earlier sentiment to himself again. Never again.  
  
And there's no second thoughts following as they always have, finally allowing him peace from the torments he suffered during his time as the Winter Soldier. There's a warming, a melting, a growing of something new.  
  
Because now, it's different.  
  
Now it's spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD ITS OVER
> 
> This is the first fic I have had genuine fun writing since at least To Choose One is to Lose Oneself.
> 
> Thank you for reading and have fun in all other fandom endeavors!
> 
> ~Myriad


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